


A Sea, Nourished

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, It's always in the orlop, Just some sweet sailor lads, M/M, Purple prose..in my Terror fic? More likely than you think, This probably doesn't really demand a mature rating, oh well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 03:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18160904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: "Oh, God--God, help us," Thomas heard Little moan, muffled against fabric and flesh.





	A Sea, Nourished

**Author's Note:**

> I think the catalyst for this was a tumblr post where someone points out that Jopson seems like the more resilient of the two, for example, how he copes better in high pressure situations. So thanks OP! (Also there's a bit of inspiration from a brief scene in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables? though not rendered for humor here). 
> 
> This is set during Crozier's withdrawals and is not directly related to my previous Jopson/Little fic ("From Ushant to Scilly..."). Hopefully I will write something longer for these guys soon.
> 
> (Also, historically speaking, I'm not sure if Jopson still serves the wardroom officer's if Crozier isn't present, but I'm going to assume he doesn't at this point, at least because he's completely occupied by taking care of Croizer at all hours.)

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;  
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;  
Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.  
What is it else? A madness most discreet,  
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.  
-William Shakespeare

Thomas didn't have much reason to be in the orlop in the first place. Or any at all, really.

It was early in the evening--though it was nearly impossible to tell from the perpetual blackness outside--and Crozier had finally drifted into a heavy sleep, with Dr. McDonald now intermittently attending to him. 

The doctor had, quite kindly, insisted that Thomas himself obtain some rest, but the steward found his feet carrying him, as if of their own volition, not to his berth but deeper into the heart of the ship. He couldn't remember the last time he slept for any significant measure of time, and he somehow knew he would be incapable of anything resembling it now.

Instead, he walked to stretch his legs, restless from where he had long been sitting watch by his captain's side in the role of unwavering sentinel. The ship was now eerie with so few men, most of them having relocated to _Erebus_. Despite that fact reminding him of the ice's ominous, vice-like grip on their own vessel, it meant he was left uninterrupted in his objectless roamings, at nary a soul's beck and call. 

He wondered if the ship's vacancy resembled what an anatomist saw when he removed the organs from a man's chest to inspect them for illness, leaving only his empty, gaping ribs--a shell where life once resided. Perhaps playing sick-nurse had made his thoughts turn to the morbid and medical, Thomas mused.

Stepping down the ladder into the lowest deck of the ship, he felt as if the dramatic slope of the floor was somehow even more discernible. For a few seconds he felt unsteady on his feet, in a way he hadn't on a ship for years. The orlop was dark, nearly impenetrably so, and permeated by a slight, foul smell. He was about to leave the way he had come, when something made him pause. 

A soft sound could be heard, just barely perceptible over the familiar creaking of the ship, something like a choking gasp. Looking about, his weight shifted from one foot to the other, causing the floorboard's beneath him to groan. The foreign noise stopped abruptly. 

Curiosity overtaking him--for all he knew some strange symptom of sleep deprivation--he ventured deeper into the skeleton of a ship, squinting his eyes to peer into dimness. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he might happened upon two men engaged in acts that the general society considered unspeakable--in which case it was probably best to retreat as if he had not heard nor witnessed anything.

Instead, he discovered a single, solitary figure, sat upon a wooden crate and hunched forward with his head in his hands.

Thomas had spent enough evenings in the wardroom, standing stiff-backed against the wall opposite this man, to recognize him from silhouette and shoulders alone. He knew he shouldn't speak, should turn heel and leave that instant, but something compelled a string of words from his mouth instead.

"Lieutenant, are you alright? Are you ill, Sir?"

Little glanced up at him, dark, unruly hair hanging like a curtain over his face. His eyes were wide and very wet. "Oh God. Jopson."

It suddenly struck him that the sound had been that of a man sobbing.

"I apologize, Sir," said Thomas hastily. "There wasn't truly reason for me to be here in the first place. I'll take my le-" He had taken a step back, but halted when Little held up the flat of his palm.

"You've already seen the state I'm in, you might as well stay." There was a crumpled handkerchief in his other hand, and he it used to wipe at his eyes and cheeks. Idley, Thomas wondered who had artfully embroidered the white linen with Little's initials. His sister, perhaps? Or even possibly a sweetheart, left behind all those miles away?

An uneasy silence held for a moment, one that Little seemed reluctant to break. Finally, whatever stoicism remained in him broke like a dam.

"Jopson, you...you must think all of us officers utterly incapable. Laughable, even. The captain, up there, lying in his own mess, from what I gather. And now his second, crying like a child in the dark. All the men we've lost to this horrible place...and now I have no doubt we're to walk out into that endless abyss--" He covered his mouth with large, trembling hands, as if afraid to say more. Tears like so many glass beads were gathering again at the corners of his red rimmed eyes.

"Sir..." Perhaps his unusual degree of familiarity with the captain made him immune to the impropriety of his next act. He stepped closer, until he stood nearly between the lieutenant's pair of spit-polished boots, and gingerly put a hand on both of the man's shoulders. He could feel them quake and tremble under his touch. The man had always looked so solid and sturdy to Thomas, a thick-hulled man-of-war cutting silently through the waves. Seeing him in this state felt wrong, like the disorienting way _Terror_ 's decks now sloped and tilted under their feet.

To his surprise, Little didn't stiffen or draw back, but instead pushed himself more fully into the embrace. Taking his hands from his mouth, he wrapped them wholly around Thomas' middle, drawing him even closer before gracelessly pressing his face to the front of Thomas' waistcoat. The steward felt as if all the air had gone out of his lungs.

"Oh, God--God, help us," Thomas heard Little moan, muffled against fabric and flesh. They stayed in that odd tableau for what felt as half an eternity, with Thomas rubbing gently at Little's shoulders, and Litte's hands clutched in the back of his coat, as if he were the only anchor in a roiling storm.

"It's going to be alright. _We're_ going to be alright," Thomas murmured, as Little's outright weeping gradually lessened and diffused into heavy, even draws of breath. Treacherously, he had let his hand wander higher, brushing the hair back from Little's brow--a fraternal gesture of comfort.

He had been doing the same thing for Crozier, less than an hour ago, Thomas rationalized. Truthfully, he knew that reasoning was far from sound. It wasn't his job to comb Lieutenant Little's hair, much less allow his bare fingers to caress the thick, silky waves, the way they had so often ached to whenever Thomas leaned over one of his epaulet lined shoulders to fill a glass of Allsopp's. 

He knew the spark of pleasure that seeped from his fingers to the pit of his gut was utterly wicked. A man in emotional need was relying on his consolation, and instead all Thomas could think about was the burning eagerness that seemed to flood his veins, how only scant layers of broadcloth and linen separated Little's mouth from the firm flesh of his stomach. How Thomas could _feel _his hot, slow breath, like the searing burn of a cattle brand. How that full, sensuous mouth had situated itself mere inches above--__

__Little shifted, now gazing up at him, clearly shamefaced. His stubbled chin still brushed Thomas' front. "You must find me a singularly pathetic spectacle," he whispered morosely, "and I have, quite selfishly, compelled you to a task that is undeserving of your sympathies."_ _

__"Pathetic" was probably as apt a term as any, though Thomas, but certainly not to describe Edward Little._ _

__Thomas' hand stilled, his own guilt no doubt bringing a warm flush to his face. Little seemed unfazed by the continued contact. "No, no, please don't think that. Please," Thomas pleaded. "The weight that must lay upon your shoulders. I couldn't begin to imagine-"_ _

__"I've always admired you, Jopson. Thomas. If I might call you that." breathed Little, as if unable to hear the steward's kind words, or as if he didn't desire to hear them. "The standard to which you clearly hold yourself, so disciplined, duteous...selfless. In my most traitorous of moments...I sometimes believe the captain is undeserving of your devotion." He looked down at their feet. "If only this ship were filled with Thomas Jospson's."_ _

__Thomas' heart swelled upon hear Little utter his Christian name, and with a tone of such respect--reverence, even. It was something he would never even allow himself to imagine in his most private of indulgences. He was glad, if only because fantasy would not have been a fraction as satisfying as the reality of it. Thomas considered his next words carefully._ _

__"If this crew were made entirely in my likeness, then you would have about sixty men who could mend shirt cuffs, tidy up cabins, and lay out polished cutlery...without any significant or practical knowledge of arctic navigation between them. It would have been a wonder if we had left port at Greenhithe at all. "_ _

__Little laughed, strained but still genuine, and Thomas felt a swell of relief. The glimmer of light that seemed to have returned to the man's eyes made him all the more striking. "I suppose you're right," said Little warmly._ _

__Growing conscious of his over-familiarity, Thomas regretfully withdrew his hand from Little's hair, and instead used it to squeeze at the thickness of his upper arm. "And I suppose you underestimate what high esteem the men hold you in." What high esteem _I_ hold you in. "A man of any mettle may fall victim to woe and melancholy, and he is not made lesser for it--only a man. Flesh and blood and beating heart. You may imagine me...unyielding, but I find myself just as vulnerable as to succumb to such feelings."_ _

__Little's grip in the back of Thomas' coat loosened, and instead of dropping completely, the hands came to station themselves at either side of his waist. Surely the man was steadying himself, thought Thomas, but when he looked back into Little's eyes he fancied there was something, some recognition, that was not already present. Perhaps he had gained meaning from Thomas' words beyond what was meant to be plainly conveyed. A bright stone reflecting into another, tumbled smooth by the same rough waves._ _

__"You have no idea how it heartens me to hear that. I do not think another soul could have brought me consolation as you have now."_ _

__Thomas tried to drink in as much of Little's face as he could before the inevitable severance of their persons. For two people who had lived in such close quarters for so long, Thomas had found no opportunity to be as utterly, damnably close to the man as this. Going forward, it would no doubt make his covert yearnings all the more cruelly affecting._ _

__"I'm glad to hear it." He made to step back, as he knew he should, but Little's hands held tighter at his waist, his legs unfurling to stand at the same moment Thomas' were threatening to buckle underneath his own weight._ _

__They met in the middle--whether by mistake or design--in a rough likeness of an embrace. Thomas' cheek slid against Little's, his chin digging into the man's shoulder as they held one another. Shifting, Thomas reveled in the scratching and scraping of Little's overgrown whiskers against his freshly shaved skin, knowing his cheek and jaw would bloom pink with the stirring of blood. Clutching to Little desperately, he had crumpled to his knee's between the spread of the lieutenant's legs, only upright on account of his arms flung around the mans neck._ _

__One hand still at Thomas' waist, Little threaded his thick fingers in the back of Thomas' too-long hair, steering them together so their lips could properly meet, both gasping and shuddering. The pain in Thomas' knees was nothing in comparison to that mouth he had so long coveted, pressing hot and firm and soft and rough all at once against his own, returning a desire tenfold that he had feared to fully admit even to himself. He couldn't help but whimper as Little's teeth grazed his bottom lip, almost clumsily. Whatever inexperience may have lingered there was more than made up for by his evident passion._ _

__If he could kiss away all of Little's miseries, Thomas decided, then he would devote himself wholly and endlessly to the task, with more vigor than any previously set before him. He would make himself as duteous and selfless as Little wrongfully believed him to be._ _

__With his hand still in Thomas' hair, Little withdrew just a few inches, his eyes heavy-lidded, dazed. The thick line of lashes that framed them had brushed against Thomas' cheek just seconds prior. Warm breath clouded between them._ _

__Little parted his now swollen and spit-slicked lips, as if searching for the right thing to say. Did he regret what they had done? It would be impossible, thought Thomas, to regret an act that felt so heavenly, so divine._ _

__Still brimming with joy at their newfound discovery, Thomas flashed him a kind, entreating smile, which was gradually returned. There was something knowing in their shared gaze, this new, tender secret held between them. Clearly, Little saw it as an invitation to act further, slowing leaning in until his mouth was upon the long line of Thomas' neck._ _

__The steward let his head fall back, blindly giving himself over to sensation. He had no doubt the other man could taste the hammering of his pulse under his skin. Unthinkingly, he dug his nails into the meat of one of Little's thighs, the muscles in his own tensing._ _

__Just as soon as he was beginning to believe that this entire turn of events might have been the fantastic conjurings of a dream, the repeated tolling of a bell somewhere above them rudely propelled them back to the realm of reality._ _

__This disgruntled groan that emanated from somewhere around Thomas' collar would have been infinitely comical in any other circumstances; reluctantly they moved apart. Taking his hand from Little's knee, he could spy where the lieutenant's greatcoat was parted, and the inner seam of his trousers protruded oddly--no doubt the now-hard jut of his prick. It was a sight, Thomas was sure, that he would find still burning at the back of his mind while he desperately tried to succumb to sleep later that night._ _

__"They'll be expecting in me in the wardroom," said Little, making absolutely no move to leave, "I'm already late."_ _

__Thomas smoothed down the front of his coat, as business-like as he would for the captain, steeling himself in the process. The bell-toll had been a harsh reminder of his station, one he had, no doubt, acted far outside the boundaries of that evening. "I do hope, sir, that I've been of some help to you." He stood._ _

__"Some...?" Little blinked owlishly. "And please don't--that is to say--you don't have need to call me 'Sir'. Please. My only desire is that, should you ever find yourself...in a similar state of distress, that I may be able to bring you solace as you have for me now."_ _

__Thomas' heart ached at the man's kindness, and at the idea that they might possibly have some future encounter. Fearing that he would delay Little even further, he nodded, firmly taking his hand in both of his own before releasing it, hoping that the gesture was imbued with his earnest affections._ _

__Having stood, Little finally turned to depart._ _

__"Wait," Thomas whispered as loudly as he dared. The fear of detection had all but fled from his mind in distraction, but was still a possibility. "You have..." He reached out to rub at an indent left on Little's cheek, "from one of my buttons, I believe."_ _

__Little colored at this, his thick brows drawn up in embarrassment. "Thank you." Some small, irrational part of Thomas was saddened to see the mark smoothed away. The lieutenant took him by the wrist, bringing Thomas' finger to his lips with an impossible tenderness, before abruptly turning on his heel and receding into the darkness. Thomas stared down at his hand in near disbelief._ _

__Finally, drawing his eyes away from his own pale fingers, he cast his gaze about, suddenly paranoid they had been seen or overheard by some unknown party. There was nothing to be found--except for a small spot of whiteness that could have easily escaped his attention. The lieutenant's handkerchief was laying on the floor, at the foot of the crate the man had just occupied._ _

__Swiftly, Thomas plucked it from where it lay and secreted it away in the folds of his waistcoat, held over his heart like a talisman. He would have ample time later, with the aide of flickering candle light, on to study the curling _E. L._ adorning the cloth's corner. _ _

__Smoothing his hair back into place, a reflexive habit of his, he imagined that he might use the guise of returning it (having found the handkerchief on some corridor floor, of course) to devise another assignation between the two of them. The idea alone made him giddy._ _

__Or perhaps, some other opportunity might present itself, as it did today, and he would be permitted to covet the cloth as his own clandestine prize._ _

__Later that night, Thomas wondered what Lieutenant Little thought about as he dined in the wardroom, scraping fork and knife over gleaming china and subjecting himself to unimportant niceties of his peers. Was his skin still aflame under layers of broadcloth? Was his mind lost to the churning depths of distraction? He wondered what _Edward_ was thinking of, all the while he clenched the handkerchief between his teeth, stifling any sound as he worked a hand under his bed linens and in between his legs._ _

__Finally, he surrendered himself to a dreamless sleep._ _


End file.
